


The Things I Deserve

by TrainRush



Category: A Hat in Time (Video Game)
Genre: -ish?, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Nihilistic Conductor, Self-Hatred, Song: The Things I Deserve (Ghost and Pals), Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, conductor get some goddamn therapy challenge, imma be honest this is way too angsty for the source material
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22184899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrainRush/pseuds/TrainRush
Summary: “alas, the story never changedfor the better end”—(or, alternatively, a conversation after train rush)
Relationships: The Conductor & DJ Grooves (A Hat in Time)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 97





	The Things I Deserve

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally supposed to go in the oneshot book but then it was Too Long so here we are.
> 
> anyways I wanna preface this with a little bit of context: [this post right here](https://storybook-rift.tumblr.com/post/189381245547/theres-also-the-implications-that-the-conductor) explains most of it (tl;dr train rush is a suicide attempt and I have the evidence)
> 
> sorry in advance

She’d actually done it. Against all odds, the hatted lass had defused the bomb.

Those sentences swam about in the Conductor’s murky mind as he took another swig from one of the bottles on his desk. The alcohol felt numb against his throat, and he set the bottle back down with a hard _thunk._ A small radio also sat on the desk, singing a static chipped yet chirpy tune. Letting free a deep sigh, the Conductor buried his head in his hands and tried to forget why he was there.

Of course he’d end up there, drowning himself with alcohol in his office. Why _wouldn’t_ he end up there? After everything that had just transpired, it was unsurprising, really. Yet, all of the Conductor’s troubles could be boiled down to a single point: he had not expected to be there. He had not expected to settle down in his office after shooting that day. He had not expected to have to walk through the halls of his studio again after leaving his train, pushing aside DJ Grooves and his incessant demands to ‘talk to him’ every other minute. He had not even expected to leave his train at all.

The Conductor’s plan had been _so_ foolproof. He would introduce his newest movie: _Train Rush,_ an action film. An original idea, the first one in recent years. Everyone would love it. He’d never specify when they were filming, though, so he’d take everyone by surprise when he would have his lead actor pull the lever. The explosives — that _bomb_ — were so deadly and unstable. There would be no survivors. Maybe one or two, if some owls had the guts to try jumping off. But the Conductor wouldn’t.

He would go out like the bird they’d always known him to be: a cold hearted monster. He knew that his owls despised him, and they’d look back on his memory with disdain. Why wouldn’t they? After all, he treated them like dirt. Not only them; DJ Grooves, too. Peck, he’d probably preach the most about how much of an asshole he was. How it was good that he ended himself when he did. How they were all so glad to see him go. The Conductor agreed: they were right, and he was going to try to prove that they were right.

Oh, how he had been sitting there, at the front of his train, waiting for his demise. Slouched over the motherboard (underneath which the Conductor knew a majority of the dynamite laid), head down, listening to the timer ticking down to his final breath. He didn’t cry much. It was what he deserved, right? After everything he’d done to the owls, the birds of Dead Bird Studio, and DJ Grooves, he almost deserved even worse. Nobody would miss him, not even his family. Both of his parents were dead. So was his daughter. His ex-wife divorced him ages ago, and the grandkids were too young to understand. They’d be better off without him as an adult figure in their life, anyways. They’d be _so_ much better off.

But then the timer stopped, perhaps at around 20 seconds or so. It took a moment for what had just happened to fully sink in before the Conductor turned around to see ‘Hat Kid’ (as she called herself) standing over the button that halted the explosives. She appeared injured, even burned in some places. Panting, she looked up at him with a gaze struck with bewilderment and confusion.

The realization quickly dawned upon the Conductor that the poor lass hadn’t expected to see him embracing death, so he gave her a quick run-of-the-mill thank you speech and handed her one of those hourglasses she liked so much. He didn’t remember much after that. It was all a blur. Too much shock.

The Conductor’s head began to ache.

But it didn’t matter now. What mattered now was that he would have to face the consequences of his failed _Train Rush_ stunt, which would certainly come knocking at his door any moment. How would he find the strength to sit through and edit the damn thing? More importantly, how the peck was he going to edit the footage of _himself?_

He reached for the alcohol again, chugging some more. The small radio had switched to some kind of talk show, and the muffled voices rang dully in his ears. Combined with the fuzziness of the alcohol, the Conductor was brought into an almost trance-like state. He stared blankly at the bottle he’d just set down.

 _It’s not over just yet, you know._ A voice — quietly echoing from the back of his mind — spoke up. _You can still end it all._

He knew that already. He had both of his knives on him; of course he could still kill himself. But the thought of someone discovering his corpse struck the wrong chord. An additional reason that _Train Rush_ should have been flawless was that he would have been reduced to charred remains. There would be no Conductor left to clean up. But otherwise…

He winced.

He didn’t want to put anyone through the task of cleaning up a corpse. It was the least he could do, after all the damage he’d done to them.

_Who the hell cares? You wouldn’t be alive to feel the guilt for it, and you’d only further prove yourself to be an awful person. They would hate you even more. Isn’t that what you want? To prove to them that they should hate you?_

The Conductor wondered what the voices on the radio were chatting about.

 _Stop beating around the bush. You know it would be_ so _easy and_ so _rewarding. You wouldn’t have to deal with any of this anymore. You would free everyone here of a terrible burden. And everyone would look back on you as exactly that. You deserve to die, you worthless, filthy—_

Unable to deny any of the voice’s accusations, he let out a shuddering sigh, placing his head in his hands. 

_Glad to know we’re on the same page. So what will it be? Slitting your wrists? Your throat? How about stabbing yourself? That would be the quickest. Oh, and don’t bother leaving behind a note. No one wants to hear from you._

The Conductor reached into the inner pocket of his blazer. He doubted he had the courage to off himself right now, but he figured he could at least examine the knife. Get a good look at it. A tight grip on the handle. Maybe a feel for the blade against his skin.

Before he reached it, however, there came a knocking on his office door. As loud as it was, it took a second to register. Who would want to talk to him right now?

Then it hit him.

With a groan, he reached for the booze and finished off the bottle, setting his head down in his arms against the desk. Maybe if he waited long enough, the bird knocking at his door would go away. Then he could resume his drunken pity party in peace. Mere seconds felt like minutes, and the Conductor didn’t notice when the door knob clicked and the door opened. He didn’t immediately notice when the radio was clicked off, either. Key word: _immediately._

It took a few seconds or so for the Conductor to realize that the talk show had stopped. Groggily, he raised his head up just enough to see a certain familiar blue flipper on top of the radio. In a single prolonged beat, his sharp thoughts of self-hatred were replaced with hot anger. The Conductor’s head snapped — or rather, swung — up to meet the gaze of his rival.

“Whaddya want?” he demanded, stumbling over his words just a little bit more than he would have liked to. DJ Grooves’s expression turned to surprise for a moment, probably from the sheer intoxicated nature of the owl before him, before hardening and becoming serious.

“Actually, nevermind. I’d much rather have this conversation with you sober.” He put a hand to his head and surveyed the Conductor for a moment. “...how many drinks have you had?”

Oh, no no no. He wasn’t having this conversation sober. If he were sober, he’d actually remember it, and that was going to be the _last_ thing he’d let happen. 

“Nope, nope! _You_ barged into _my_ office, and you’re going to tell me _exactly_ why you wanted to see me,” he challenged, stubbornly glaring at DJ Grooves. If he wanted to talk about _Train Rush_ at all, he’d have to do it now.

The moon penguin paused for a moment before taking a seat in one of the empty chairs. “Alright. Fine. Now, how many drinks—?”

“That’s none of your business,” the Conductor interrupted, reclining in his chair. “Let me ask again: what do you want?”

DJ Grooves appeared irritated. His face twitched. “I have a question for you, Conductor, darling: what the _peck_ was that?”

His rival’s uncharacteristic swearing flew completely over his head, and he scratched his neck. “Erm… what was what?”

DJ Grooves sputtered. “The movie you literally _just_ filmed? What _was_ that?”

The Conductor grinned. “Ah, Train Rush! Brilliant, isn’t it?” _In more ways than one._ “I expect it’ll be the best action movie of the year!”

The irritated moon penguin laughed bitterly. “Oh, action movie of the year, my—” He cut his sentence off, taking a deep breath. As he sighed, he breathed out a few words. “My god, you are really not getting the point.”

The Conductor tilted his head. “Your point being…?”

DJ Grooves snapped. “You used a _real bomb!_ Everyone on your train could have _died!_ All of those owls… that poor little girl… even _you! You_ could have died, too!”

His smile faltered. He realized that this facade wasn’t going to be the easiest to keep up. “Oh, uh…. whoops.”

“‘Whoops?’ _Whoops?!_ Darling, do you know how many owls boarded your train today? There had to have been several _dozens!_ Each with their own lives… their own families to return to at the end of the day… and you put them all in that kind of danger?! What were you _thinking??_ ”

“Well, uh…” the Conductor began, his heart pounding, “I was hoping a few of ‘em would have the courage to, uh, jump off and give themselves a chance if it all went wrong.” He straightened up in his chair and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.

DJ Grooves was just about smoking with fury. “ _Jump— if—_ what if it _did_ go wrong? All of those owls… _every single_ _one_ of them… would have _died!_ The little girl with the hat would have _died!_ She has the whole rest of her life to live, and she nearly _didn’t!_ You are _so_ lucky she arrived here when she did, or you...” the Conductor looked down at the desk, feeling his own anger boiling, “you would have _died._ Conductor, you nearly _died!_ ”

With the last word, his voice cracked, and DJ Grooves looked away for a second. Meanwhile, the Conductor was nearly cracking with anger of his own. He didn’t need to be reminded of how close he was to death and how much he invested into said death. In fact, those two were exactly what he was drinking to forget in the first place. But with his rival sitting there spouting all kinds of reminders, it was proving to be quite difficult.

DJ Grooves’s voice became quieter, but still venomous. “If that bomb had gone off — which, considering the circumstances, it should have — you would have died. You would have been _gone! Forever!_ You put your life directly on the line — and for what? A _movie?”_ His voice began to raise again. “No, not only you, you put _everyone’s_ life on the line! A-and _what if? What if_ that bomb had gone off? _What if_ those owls died? _What if_ the little girl died? _What if—_ ” The moon penguin hesitated, and the Conductor’s fists clenched. “ _What if_ you _died?”_

The Conductor had had enough. Suddenly and impulsively, he stood up and slammed his fists into his desk. Glaring hatefully at his rival, and in no state of mind to control the words that came out of his mouth, he took a short breath.

“And what if _that was the whole point??_ ” he yelled at DJ Grooves, whose expression rapidly changed from anger to horror as he processed those words. “What if I _wanted_ t—”

The Conductor cut himself off before he could finish the last statement, his words fizzling out in his breath. As what he had said began to register, his fury quickly dissipated. His expression softened, and he looked away from DJ Grooves, down at his desk instead. Yet, the feeling that replaced his receded anger was not fear or sadness, but blank numbness. The Conductor wasn’t sure how to feel as he heard his own words echoing in his mind. Certainly, he should have felt horrified. No, he _did_ feel horrified. His mind quickly scrambled for an excuse to recover himself from the deal he’d just blown, and he took a deep breath to say something, anything, to help himself out of there. But everything seemed to pull a blank, and his mouth remained awkwardly agape as he stared at his desk.

Maybe it was because deep down, he knew it was impossible to recover. Whether he mustered up some fake completion to that sentence or not, he knew it wouldn’t fool DJ Grooves. No excuse would fool his rival. The fact of the matter was that he had just admitted to attempting suicide, and that was that.

The Conductor continued staring down at his desk as the two halves of his mind argued on what to do. He zoned out, unaware of how much time was passing and how inappropriate it would be to make up an excuse _so late,_ until a voice from the other side of the desk spoke up.

“ _Wh… what?_ ”

DJ Grooves’s voice was soft and fragile, yet heavy with pure emotion. It set its full weight upon the Conductor. Anguish, shock, horror, and maybe even a bit of guilt. But that one word, as powerful as it was, did not break his heart. Instead, he felt confusion. Why was Grooves so upset? Shouldn’t he have been happy? He’d only benefit from his death. Why did he sound so _distraught?_ The Conductor grimaced and shut his mouth, making the executive decision not to make excuses for himself. He still stared down at the desk, lacking the strength to look up and face his rival.

Maybe the moon penguin was faking it to try and make him feel better. He was an excellent actor, after all. It was in his nature to lie. To show _pathetic sympathy._ After everything that the Conductor had done to him, there was no way it wasn’t. DJ Grooves was taking _pity_ on the asshole in front of him. Obviously. There was no other way that word could have come out of his mouth… right?

Then he spoke up again.

“Oh my _god…_ ”

Once again, the Conductor was hit with emotion; the same ones as the previous expression. Though, this time, DJ Grooves’s words were more pronounced. Less airy and delicate, yet a little more choked. Almost as though he was fighting something back. But he wasn’t done speaking yet.

“...y-you’re serious.”

The last few syllables faded away into the air, drowned in his breath. The Conductor could still understand it loud and clear, and he felt his grimace tighten as he now glared at his desk. Why did Grooves sound so shocked? He should have known this was coming for a long time. Or maybe it was the acting — the pity — speaking for him again. DJ Grooves wasn’t an idiot. He was smart enough to be able to understand that his death would only benefit the both of them, right?

Regardless of everything, the silence between the two birds dragged on. And on. Until the Conductor heard a quiet, muffled choke from the other. At last, he looked up.

DJ Grooves had slumped back into his chair. His gaze was fixated on nothing, and his expression was etched with sorrow. Tears streamed down his face.

He was crying. In surprise, the Conductor frowned for a second. He thought for a moment, too. Then, he forced a smile onto his face.

“But, hey! I’m still here, right? Alive! Even if it means my months of planning and investment were put to waste!” he said, handing the last few words to his rival with resent. “I don’t even know what you think makes me _valuable enough_ to stay alive! The express owls hate me! Peck, _you_ hate me! I’m an awful person!” He laughed, short and breathily, and he put a hand to his head. “Isn’t it good to do you a _favor?_ Kill myself so you won’t have to bear me any longer? So that _I_ won’t have to bear—”

“ _Stop._ ”

The Conductor did. His gaze returned back to his rival, shocked by the firm nature of his voice. Yet, despite how firm the moon penguin was in his previous statement, DJ Grooves appeared anything but stable. His head rested in his hands, and he took deep choppy breaths between quiet sobs. An odd emotion rose in the Conductor’s chest, watching the shaky penguin. It was unidentifiable, yet oddly familiar. Sadness? Guilt?

Whatever it was, he shoved it back. There was a small moment of silence as the Conductor finished processing everything that had just happened. As he did, a very different emotion began to brew in his heart. It was hot as it traveled up his throat, and it tasted like bile in his mouth. He spat it out bitterly.

“Get out.”

DJ Grooves’s head snapped up, his expression giving away visible shock. The Conductor would have none of it.

“ _Get the hell out._ ”

Quickly, DJ Grooves rose from his chair, clearly unwilling to become a victim of the Conductor’s fury. He traveled to and out the door, watching his rival every moment of the way, before shutting the door behind him and fleeing. After what felt like an eternity of tension, the Conductor sighed heavily, and yet another wave of emotion hit him. 

_What have you done?_

…Oh, god, what had he done?

_If you thought you’d screwed yourself before, you’re totally pecked now._

He was completely done for.

_There’s only one way out. You have to do it. Now. Take one of your knives and plunge it into your chest. Do it. Spare them all the trouble. Just do it, goddamnit—!_

The Conductor shook away the thoughts and forced himself to turn around and pace over to one of his cabinets leaning against the wall.

He had to have some more alcohol somewhere…

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact! this oneshot went through several name changes, former names including “perfect nothing,” “cut the act (everything ruined in moments),” “slow day,” and “f:):)lish!”


End file.
